


and the devil too

by Anonymous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Clay | Dream centric, Gen, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), I am so sorry nerdyboiyeet i really liked your fic so i stole it, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, he meets dream two (2) times and immediately adopts him, more like no ending at all, no beta we die like the light in my mother's eyes when she sees my bullshit hobbies, not really??, philza is a good dad in this fic, sorry lads theres no resolution or satisfaction in my good christian minecraft fanfic, why isn't suicidal ideation a tag thats homophobic against me specifically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: His mind is whirling with sick adrenaline and reckless, self-destructive delight at the brief flicker of hurt in the man's eyes. He's laughing still, he thinks, as he relishes in the fiery cold power of causing pain. "I think you're just scared," mocks Dream. He's digging his bony fingers into every crack he can find, pouring salt on every cut and scrape he knows the monster has. "Terrified I'm gonna leave you in the dust just like everyone else. Just like everyone you've ever known, because you're not worthshit.You're nothing, you're replaceable, you're thrown away like trash because everyoneknowsthat's what you are, you--"His head hits the wall with a sickening snap.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Comments: 13
Kudos: 19
Collections: Anonymous





	and the devil too

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bruises Are Dark, Like the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29556804) by [NerdyBoiYeet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyBoiYeet/pseuds/NerdyBoiYeet). 



> title is from "dear god" by XTC. highly recommend, its my absolute favorite blasphemy
> 
> warning for kinda sorta self harm??? bro idk i just project my entire self on these characters i dont know the terms

Dream runs.

He sprints, clutching at the green fabric of his hoodie, choking on his tears. Empty houses blur by him, monotone and blue. His bare feet pound the pavement, sending jolts of pain through him with every desperate, stumbling step. A sob forces its way past his lips and the concrete gives way to wet grass. He can't breathe.

Dream grits his teeth, tasting blood, and pushes himself harder.

His feet slide on the muddy ground, blood mixing with dirt and dirt mixing with salty tears.

_If he's fast enough, the knots constricting his chest will unravel. If he runs hard enough, maybe he'll finally remember what breathing is like._

He can hardly feel the burning in his muscles and the sharp sting in his lungs over the pounding in his skull. Red drips into his eye, stinging and blocking out his vison, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away. It'll drip back down, anyway, it always does. He's always been drowning in red.

The glass shards shift in his bicep, drawing a strangled gasp. Blood runs into his mouth and he gags, trying futilely to spit it out. It splatters on this inside of his mask and drips down his soaked shirt. It clings on, coating his tongue and running into the gaps between his teeth, filling his senses with the familiar but suddenly unbearable taste. Spreading quickly it reaches its vile fingers down Dream's throat, obstructing his airway and he retches. He doesn't stop, though, can't stop running, so he throws himself forward, blindly staggering, ignoring the way his hazy vision is going black around the edges.

Something solid rams into his side and he falls face first, bringing his arms up last minute to protect his head. He hits the ground, and red fades to soothing, comforting, familiar black.

_Something's wrong._

Dream wakes slowly, comfortably. There's a thick blanket lying over his shoulders, and soft sunlight on his face.

_Wrong, wrong, this is wrong!_

Dream _never_ wakes up comfortable. Not unless his father wants something from him. And the last time his father wanted something of him...

Dream fights to keep his muscles relaxed so as not to give himself away. If he stealthily takes in his surroundings, he can figure out what he's in for, and hopefully avoid it with a well-placed word and a well-timed smile.

But-- his eyes snap open. This isn't his house. His room doesn't have a window. He doesn't own any blankets that thick. And his house... his house doesn't have a man with giant bird wings hanging around in doorways.

"Philza?" Asks Dream, incredulous.

The bird-man hums in question, still watching him with sad eyes.

Dream struggles into a seated position. From there, he sees that the gash in his bicep is bandaged, fresh blood leaking slightly through and staining it a cheerful red. His heart drops in his throat and his hands fly to his mask, feeling around the edges for any sign that his privacy was violated just to wrap a measly cut.

Philza clears his throat. "Don't worry, mate. I didn't look, I just put a stick-on bandage on your head and rinsed out your mouth."

Lowering his shaky hands, Dream breathes out. "Thank you,"

Seemingly out of things to say, Philza simply hums noncommittally. 

After a moment of stifling silence, Dream speaks up again. "Um. Thank you for... fixing me up. I should get going, though, my dad and brother must be worried sick."

The lie slips out with the ease of long practice. Philza frowns. "Are you..." But Dream was already off the bed and slipping past him into the hallway.

"Where's your front door?"

"Not even gonna stay for lunch?"

Dream freezes. _Lunch?_ Oh, _fuck,_ he was going to be in for so much worse than the night before. His stomach falls into his boots, and he doesn't bother picking it back up.

"Uh, it's- I- could you- what time is it?" Dream stammers. He can feel his hands starting to shake again, and he shoves them in his pockets.

Dream brings out Philza's perpetual frown, apparently. Philza glances down at his watch. "It's fourteen and a quarter. Or, sorry, two-fifteen."

Dream curses under his breath and runs a hand through his hair. "Could you point me in the direction of the nearest bus stop?"

"It's down the street and to the left-- here." Philza rummages around in his pocket and presses a dollar bill into Dream's hand. "For the fare."

With only slight hesitation, Dream pockets the money. "Thank you. Again. I owe you."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do. I don't like having unpaid debts."

Philza runs a hand over his mouth. "You're-- Mate, you're a child. I don't expect _anything_ from you."

"Then you're a fool." Dream snaps, and with that, slips through the doorway into the street.

The bus ride is short, unexpectedly so. It's only about five stops before Dream pulls the cord and steps back into the sunlight, ignoring the strange stares his mask gains him.

He doesn't knock when he reaches his front door. If he's lucky, he might be able to sneak past, and put off his father's confrontation until dinner.

He eases the door open in the only way that doesn't creak and quietly steps in, surveying the area, praying for it to be empty.

It isn't.

Tubbo glares at him from the couch. "Where were you!?" He hisses.

"I was out. Where's dad?" Dream whispers.

"Out? No _shit_ you were out! Out _where?_ "

"Just answer the question, Tubbo!"

"Dad's at an important meeting." He crosses his arms. "Of course you wouldn't know. You weren't here when he announced it. You're _never_ here!"

"And just why do you think that is?" Dream asks lowly.

Tubbo sniffs haughtily and looks away. Shaking his head, Dream climbs the stairs to his room and shuts the door. He's safe, for the time being. No matter how angry Tubbo is at his absence, Dream knows he would never purposefully get him in trouble.

It's several hours later, just as night is beginning to fall, that he finally rethinks that. The front door creaks open, and immediately he hears Tubbo's voice, sounding pointed and annoyed. The dangerous rumble of his father's voice, and then footsteps on the stairs.

His father's office is on the first floor.

Dream feels icy all over.

He freezes, even as the footsteps get closer and closer. He could flee-- if he could just get his feet to move, he could climb through the window, or bury himself in the closet-- but his door flies open and he still hasn't budged, just staring straight at the straight at the wall and shaking.

Not because of the beating he's about to endure. No, he's used to those. It's the fact that Tubbo-- Tubbo turned him in. Tubbo _wanted_ him to get hurt.

He thought Tubbo loved him. Despite everything, he thought Tubbo would want to protect him, too--

"Clay," His father growls.

Dream winces. He hates that name. 

He turns, and meets his father's eyes. "Hey dad," He says casually.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" The man spits in return.

Dream opens his mouth to respond with a quip of some kind, but all he can do is grunt as he's grabbed by the shoulder and practically thrown out into the hallway. A shove to his back makes him stumble down the stairs, throwing his arms out wide to keep himself from fully falling. Once he reaches the bottom, his father grasps his upper arm in a tight hold. Dream has to bite his lip hard to keep from crying out. He can already feel his wound weeping, more than likely staining his favorite hoodie brown.

He's dragged through the front room, where Tubbo's still sitting on the couch. It's a little strange; normally his father is better at hiding what he does from his other son, but Dream isn't complaining. He's tempted to glare at Tubbo, but he's angry often enough. A betrayed look would hurt Tubbo so much more.

A coldly satisfied feeling settles in his chest at the way Tubbo folds in on himself, avoiding any more eye contact. 

Then he's being tossed down the steps into the cold and empty basement, and Tubbo is the last thing on his mind. He hits the concrete floor with a pained wheeze, all the breath knocked from his lungs. His head cracks on the floor and it feels like it's splitting open. He groans, tucking his face into his chest, absentmindedly pulling his mask, his armor, down over his face as he tries to gasp life back into his heaving lungs. A kick from a sharp-toed boot lands at the base of his spine and he bites down a guttural hiss. He struggles to his feet, and the walls sway around him.

He has a concussion, he's pretty sure.

His father glares at him with contempt. "What were you going to do, huh? Go run and tattle on daddy to the police? Pathetic,"

Dream snickers, staggering over to the wall and bracing himself on it. "Aww, afraid I'm gonna leave you like mom did?" He taunts.

Rage lights in the other man's face like wildfire. He snatches an empty bottle off the table in the corner-- Dream always wondered if he kept them for this specific purpose-- And cracks it down on Dream's forearm, where he had raised it to protect his face. Dream fights back a whimper as he feels glass imbed itself in his skin.

Distracted by the pain, Dream doesn't have enough time to brace himself when his father grabs the front of his shirt and slams his knee into Dream's stomach. He lets out a choked whine as his breath leaves him for the second time that night, and then his father is grabbing his head and forcing it down and there's a burning pain in his nose and a sting on his cheekbone and white fragments all over the floor. He hears a crunch when his father puts his foot back down.

"No," Dream breathes, and he's on his knees scrambling for the shards of his armor. A boot slams down on his fingers, forcing porcelain into his palm and making a gut-wrenching cracking noise. Dream almost screams, but it gets stuck halfway in his throat and he just exhales harshly, desperation coloring the edge of a wail in his voice. 

"Look at you. Attached to a piece of goddamn pottery. You're _useless_."

"Fuck you," Dream spits, " _Fuck you_ , oh my god. All you are is an old man trying to find some sense of power in the only way he can, and it's by beating on a _child_. You're so fucking weak, you can't-- _won't_ even stand up for yourself anywhere but this godforsaken basement."

A foot slams into his shoulder, throwing him back against the wall. 

Dream laughs, a high, mocking sound. "Does it make you feel better, _dad?_ Does hitting a kid make all the bad feelings go away?" his voice is saccharine sweet poison, and he spits blood when another kick lands to his gut. Coughing, he looks his father in the eyes, dripping disgust. " _I'm_ useless? _I'm_ pathetic? When was the last time you looked in a fucking mirror?"

His mind is whirling with sick adrenaline and reckless, self-destructive delight at the brief flicker of hurt in his father's eyes. He's laughing still, he thinks, as he relishes in the fiery cold power of causing pain. "I think you're just scared," mocks Dream. He's digging his boney fingers into every crack he can find, pouring salt on every cut and scrape he knows the monster has. "Terrified I'm gonna leave you in the dust just like everyone else. Just like everyone you've ever known, because you're not worth _shit._ You're nothing, you're replaceable, you're thrown away like trash because everyone _knows_ that's what you are, you--"

His head hits the wall with a sickening snap, and everything blurs. The dusty grey walls gibe him, swirling when he looks directly at them but stilling in the corners of his eyes. Even when seated, dizziness overcomes him and he sways, squinting black spots out of his eyes and gasping for breath. He doesn't try to struggle to his feet. He knows the routine by now; it's ingrained in him, practically muscle memory. Anger his father, keep him away from Tubbo, taunt him, have his shit kicked, pass out. It's useless to fight the inevitable. Yet, still, he finds himself glaring up at his dad, eyes alight with some kind of sick glee as the bottle comes down over his head.

He's still laughing, he thinks, as he blinks the glass from his eyelashes. It clings on, glittering at the edge of his vision like morning dewdrops.

The pain is sharp and bright and all-encompassing.

Dream hasn't felt anything bright in months.

He closes his eyes and savors the feeling. For a moment, it's just Dream and the white and the white-hot, the familiar ache in his bones and agony in his mind keeping him in close company. But then the beast lunges again, his shadow on the backdrop of Dream's red eyelids making them flinch open, and he's being dragged bodily to his feet. He sags against the wall, pitiful screams at the grinding of glass against his skull and the feeling of hair ripping from his torn scalp just barely locked behind his teeth.

"Fucking face me like a man, then, huh? If you can't stand up to trash, what does that make you!?"

Dream scoffs, opening his mouth for another quip, but his father pulls him forward and slams him back before he can make a sound. He hears a crunch as he hits the concrete and he screams, his vision going black at the edges as red red red pain drips and radiates and he can't breathe, can't feel, can't feel anything--

At some point his laughter turns to screams. At some point, his father throws him to the floor. At some point, his father leaves.

All Dream knows is that he's lying in the bare concrete, shivering and bleeding and trying not to pass out-- concussion, you're not supposed to sleep with a concussion-- and someone's coming into the basement again.

When he finally lifts his gaze, the sight of Tubbo standing in the stairway with a hand over his mouth and tears streaming down his face greets him.

"Dream," he chokes.

"Fuck you," Dream says, but there's no venom in it. Just exhaustion.

Spell seemingly broken, Tubbo flies to his side. "Dream," He says again, helpless hands everywhere.

Dream sits up, ignoring the way the world tilts and spins, bracing himself on the wall and hauling himself to his feet. He staggers past his brother, pretending not to hear when Tubbo calls his name again, desperately, frozen somewhere behind him. Somehow, he makes it out the door and down the street, wandering aimlessly under the stars, relishing in the loneliness of the city at dark. He has no clue how he's still upright-- adrenaline or spite, maybe hysterical strength-- but he is, and after a while he finds himself at a very familiar spot.

It's the highway bridge. Far above the river, the railings beckon to him. He obliges, leaning his forearms on the cold metal and staring emptily down at the churning water. From this high up, if he fell, he would be killed on impact. A split second of pain, then the bliss of nothing.

Dream is used to pain.

Before he can really think about what he's doing, he's slipping off his shoes and swinging his legs up onto the railing, perching himself on the edge.

The cool breeze soothes his bleeding face. He watches in morbid fascination as his feet kick far above the glittering water.

Just an inch or two forward, and he would be over.

Carefully, he lifts himself up, sliding his feet down to one of the rungs of the fence and hooking his fingers on the other side of the rail. He leans his whole body out over the abyss. With nothing in the way of his vision, he can already feel the freefall. He closes his eyes and loosens his fingers, inhaling slowly--

"What are you doing?"

Heart leaping into his throat, Dream whips around.

The sudden movement makes him lose his grip for a moment, and he scrabbles along the cold metal until he has a safe hold, life flashing dangerously before his eyes.

Philza Minecraft stands a few feet from where Dream hangs.

He looks anguished, and Dream feels sick.

"Dream--" Philza steps forward, but stops in his tracks when Dream swings his body back over the water, pressing himself as far away from the man as he can get.

"Dream," He says again, voice soft and pained. "Please. Come back over. Don't do this, please."

Dream swallows, eyes flickering between the emptiness below him and the kind face before him. "Wh..." His voice cracks. He licks his lips nervously and tries again. "Why?"

Philza makes a sound like the air was punched out of him. He looks at Dream silently for a moment, hurt in his eyes, and Dream glances away, tears forming in his own. Something about being faced with a-- a _caring_ authority figure makes his insides turn to leaden shame.

"I'm sorry," Dream breathes. Sorry for what, he doesn't know.

"No--" Philza starts toward him again, "No, don't be sorry, mate, _I'm_ sorry--"

Tears slip down Dream's cheeks and he grips the railing tighter, avoiding Philza's eyes.

When he doesn't back away again, Philza hesitantly extends a hand over the railing. "Come down, please. Everyone's worried sick about you."

Slowly, Dream puts a shaking hand in Philza's. The bird-man's hands are sturdy and far larger than Dream's own. He whimpers, terror coursing through his veins, as Philza grips him tighter and yanks him back over the fence and onto the bridge, forcing him to scramble for footholds and nearly drop to the asphalt, scraping his knee as he goes over.

Dream launches himself at Philza at the same time that Philza tugs him back toward himself, and the two crash together in a desperate, bone crushing embrace. Dream buries his face into Philza's chest, muffling his sobs, and Philza wraps his wings around Dream protectively, as if the edge of the bridge would reach up and snatch him right back off. 

_This feels nice,_ Dream thinks distantly. He hasn't been held, or even touched in a way that didn't bring pain since he can remember. He'd always flinched and shied away when his friends when in for a hug or a pat on the back, and soon enough they stopped trying to touch him at all. He didn't realize how much he missed it until now, and he sinks his face deeper into the fabric of Philza's shirt, sniffling.

"God, mate, don't ever scare me like that again," Phil pleads, muffled slightly by Dream's hair.

Dream swallows, thick with tears and dehydration. "Um," he whispers, pulling back from the hug just enough to look at Phil's face. 

Slowly but surely, the sharp awareness that the cold air brought him is fading. His ears are ringing, the rushing of the water below becoming dull as the pains of his body make themselves known again, insistent. He's swaying where he stands. "Sorry, don't think I can do that," He rasps.

Dream barely catches Philza's "What?" before the world tilts up toward his face and black nothing reaches out again to cradle him in overdue, gentle, unforgiving arms.

**Author's Note:**

> so. uhhh yeah i basically just rewrote your fic, nerdyboiyeet, i am so fucking sorry
> 
> i may or may not add another part, but i was so sick of this sitting in my drafts so here u go, hope you enjoyed,,,,


End file.
